Catallus 16
by eldritcher
Summary: In which Harry sets out to be a ninja-assassin, catsuit and all, only to end up re-enacting all the mischief of Catallus 16, accidentally. Dumbledore duels Grindelwald, again, while Fudge insists that they are all of the same mind, and Voldemort spends most of his time making candles and soap.
1. To kill a mockingbird

It had been a brilliant idea, really.

Only, Harry hadn't expected to wind up right atop his tranquilized target. In bed.

Somewhere in the room, a cuckoo clock chose to call out the hour. Harry's reflexes, already stressed to extreme sensitivity, responded with a Silencing Spell so fast that Hermione would have envied him for the rest of her life had she been present to see that.

Hermione. Right. Hermione, the Weasley family, Hagrid, Dumbledore…everyone, really, even including that prat of a Malfoy. He wanted to save everyone. That was why he was here, wearing a black catsuit and a silk mask, armed with tranquilizer darts, straddling Voldemort's prone, inert form.

Now he only had to kill the man. He bit his lower lip, hesitating. He had mulled this over a lot.

Dumbledore had said that Voldemort could not be killed directly. Voldemort had proclaimed at his resurrection that he was far along the path of immortality.

Dumbledore would have known what to do. Dumbledore would know what to do. Harry had not thought ahead that far.

He had seen a report of Bellatrix's latest killing in the Prophet, fretted over that, and promptly landed atop Voldemort in the dead of the night, determined to end it all. The bond was a rich presence in his mind, all the bloody time. He knew that he could reach Voldemort through it. He just knew, even if he did not know why. So he went there, to his target, with his ill-formed idea involving tranquilizing darts.

It was a good plan, Harry thought defensively. He remembered the snake then. He looked around carefully. He did not see the beast. Good. Maybe she was off hunting. He shrugged.

He probed the bond. Voldemort still seemed well out of it, his presence in Harry's mind bearing none of its usual potency.

Good.

Now to kill the mockingbird. Harry frowned. He was not quite sure what Hermione's book was about, but it had some killing involved. And Voldemort was always mocking Harry, wasn't he?

"You deserve it!" Harry said vehemently, glaring at the target.

The target snuffled a bit and placidly continued its state of tranquility.

The blasted cuckoo bird came out again, startling Harry, though it shut up after seeing the expression on Harry's face.

Right, time to kill. Voldemort's time of reckoning had come. Harry would be jury, judge and executioner. Only fitting, was it not?

He straightened his spine, and took a deep breath, only to suddenly realize that they must look something like that picture in Ron's stash of dirty magazines. Yes, that one that Dean called the cow-girl position. Harry bit his lip again, shaking his head free of that ridiculous notion. Only, the idea of sex now badgered him and he wondered if Voldemort managed to retrieve his genitals too in that resurrection bid.

Maybe that explained his bad temper. Maybe he did not fuck Bellatrix because he actually could not. Harry grinned.

It was the least revenge he could get for everything the bastard had done.

So Harry tried rubbing himself harder against the front of Voldemort's robes, trying to gauge if he could feel a penis.

Oh, there was! Harry blushed. Well, time to get on with it then. With the killing, that is. He stopped his movement.

It seemed to be a decent-sized lump, though, Harry noted distractedly. A growing, decent-sized lump. Horrified, Harry scooted forward more, only to lose his balance and fall flat upon his bony target. Arms came to hold him, pressing him against his target, and his mind was full of the awareness of a blacker presence.

"I can explain!"

That did not come out right. Harry gritted his teeth and tried to wrest back into a better position.

Voldemort did not let him move, instead slipping a thigh between Harry's legs and making a gay sort of gliding motion against Harry's crotch.

"I am not gay!"

Voldemort did not heed that. When had he listened to anything Harry had to say? He continued the motion, and his arms came down to hold Harry by the hips, limiting Harry's thrusts.

Why was Harry thrusting?

Before he could find the answer to that question, or to any of the others, he collapsed on his target, spent and satiated.

His brain always shut down after an orgasm. Sleep was overcoming him and he decided to deal with the rest of it when he woke up in a dungeon somewhere to Voldemort's minions chopping off his bits.

* * *

He woke to the very scratchy sensation of a cleaning charm upon his skin.

"Watch that, Ron!" he muttered, and dug his limbs into his pillow.

A presence exploded in his mind, giving him a pounding headache and waking him up. As he opened his eyes, the cuckoo burst out of its hiding place and gave a triumphant note.

Oh, right.

"Voldemort," Harry said bravely, facing his death. At least, he got to die before he had to torment himself with why he liked what had happened the previous night. He did not really like it, he decided. It was just that he was a teenage virgin with needs and Ron talked so much about Hermione putting out. Harry thought he had been making progress with Ginny, but she was so…fussy.

So bravely he faced his death.

Only, his death was more interested in flipping him over.

"Hey, hey!" Harry squawked, trying to bat the man off. Aunt Petunia had so much to say about perverts who liked boys, but he had never considered Voldemort to be the molesting sort.

Then Voldemort did something with his hips that sent Harry's eyes rolling towards the back of his head and Harry decided that sex before death was not a bad thing, especially if Voldemort was as obsessively perfect at it as Tom Riddle once had been.

Why was the man so silent? Harry had never imagined Voldemort's sex life, but now that he thought of it, he would have imagined Voldemort to monologue throughout the act.

Harry was about to ask when Voldemort drew Harry's fingers into his mouth and laved them with such relish that Harry decided it was the best possible use for that mouth. Harry felt his cock stiffening as Voldemort sucked his fingers. Really though, Harry knew that he was getting off more watching Voldemort's face slack in enjoyment. This time, after he crashed into orgasm, Harry stayed awake with effort, watching as Voldemort rolled over to his side, taking his weight off Harry, and then slipping a hand inside his robes for a purpose Harry could guess at.

This business was a disaster, but Harry knew that he ought to face his death fairly. So he dragged his hand out of Voldemort's mouth, enjoying the soft gasp of disappointment that was the result, and then stuck his hand inside Voldemort's robes. He inhaled sharply when he touched velvet, ridged and thick. Heat bucked into his hand.

"All right," he muttered. He had done this to himself so many times. Only, now the angle was all wrong and his motions were jerky.

Voldemort did not seem to care about the gracelessness of the motion, Harry thought, as he watched the man arching into his touch. Well, it did not matter if Voldemort did not enjoy it. It was only for payback. Harry was not gay.

When Voldemort stilled under Harry's wet palm, his eyes flared open, and the pupils were so blown that Harry knew that the man was drugged out of his head.

"What did you do?" the man rasped, even before his body had stopped shaking from the aftermath of the orgasm, and his magic smothered Harry's mind in panic.

Magic crackled in the air, Harry felt goosebumps rise on his skin, and window panes shattered.

Harry attempted to wave his hands but his right hand was still stuck inside Voldemort's robes. He dragged it out quickly.

"I am not gay!" he explained.

"Suck those fingers clean," Voldemort demanded, pushing down his wand into Harry's throat.

Harry frowned but did so anyway, humouring the man since he had no interest in dying by Crucios. It tasted quite good, Harry thought. He laved the webs between his fingers to make sure he got it all. Pity that he would die before…

"You like cock," Voldemort announced, looking irritable. "Now that the question of your sexuality is settled, what is your purpose here?"

The first thought that Harry had was that Voldemort would make a poor counsellor.

"Why did you..er..you know?"

Voldemort smiled and it was not a pleasant smile.

"Whatever you drugged me with has managed to fire my neural pathways enough to contemplate slaking myself upon your scrawny form."

"You are scrawnier," Harry shot back, choosing to skip over whatever neural pathways meant.

"May I choke you?"

"What?" Harry sat up, staring at the man who lounged across him, and looked quite serious.

"Keep up, Harry. Sex. I want it. You caused this mess. You will correct it. So, you will have sex with me until this wears off. I am very angry right now, so choking will be a good start."

"I have not done any of this before, you know," Harry muttered darkly.

"Sex or murder?"

"What do you think?" Harry asked testily.

"Why are you wearing that seductive costume?"

"It is not seductive! It is a catsuit," Harry gritted out. "It is for killers who are silent and sneak about."

"If you say so. It would only chafe," Voldemort said. "Take it off."

Harry narrowed his eyes. Voldemort held his gaze. With a sigh, Harry fumbled for the hidden zip in the back.

"Let me," Voldemort offered, looking reasonable and gracious all of a sudden.

Harry doubted the sanity of the proposal, but decided that getting stabbed in the back under the pretext of unzipping his catsuit was not his most critical concern.  
Voldemort was efficient at getting him out of the catsuit.

"You have done this before."

Voldemort made a noncommittal hum.

"You have done this with people trying to kill you!" Harry exclaimed, suddenly feeling quite sordid.

"No, of course not," Voldemort snapped, gripping Harry's hips and tugging the catsuit off his legs, leaving Harry naked but for his pants.

"Men do not come to my bed wearing catsuits to kill me, Harry," he said, dragging his fingers down Harry's spine, eliciting a shudder or two. "They come to seduce me. It is a very common fetish."

Harry wanted to protest his awareness of this fetish when Voldemort stuck his hand down Harry's pants and cupped his arse.

"I am not-"

"Yes, you are not gay," Voldemort said flatly. "Do you think I can't make you enjoy it? _Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo_ , and you will want it all."

"What?"

" _I will sodomise you and face-fuck you._ Your Latin is lacking."

"I am resistant to the Imperius!"

"I won't need that, Harry," Voldemort said, and pressed a line of wet kisses down the line of Harry's spine.

Harry was convinced of Voldemort's words by the time long fingers had come to wrap over Harry's arousal, alternating between that and tugging at the balls behind.

As Harry shouted his frustration aloud, he felt his pants being tugged down and his thighs brought together. He felt panic rising in his chest, up his stomach.

"Keep them close and tight," was the filthy order, followed by wetness slicking up and down the crevice between his thighs. Each stroke hit his balls.

"Intercrural, Harry," Voldemort whispered. "A part of every boy's education at school, or so I thought."

Harry whimpered and pushed into Voldemort's fingers. He was desperate enough to thrust and one of his jerky movements brought the slick heat between his thighs to brush against the crack of his arse.

"Oh God!"

"It is exquisite, is it not?"

"Do it again!"

Voldemort laughed his cold laugh but complied. Harry caught himself moaning at the overwhelming sensation. Then he was falling, and Voldemort fell too, with wetness spurted between his legs, and only Voldemort's arms kept him upright, until he was gently let go and he fell onto the bed.

"I have never had one so young," Voldemort mused, as they lay panting, side-by-side.

"You have," Harry muttered, pulling his pants back up. "There was Derrick Watson, of Fifth-Year, Hufflepuff. You buggered him when you were in Fourth-Year, over Flitwick's desk in the Charms classroom."

"Dumbledore caught us then," Voldemort said, distractedly, turning to face him, running his eyes up and down Harry's body. "Is he showing you Pensieve memories of all my past sexual encounters these days? How very useful."

"It is," Harry said defensively.

"It could turn you gay, Harry."

Harry suspected that the connection between their minds could lead him down that path of gayness, if he was not careful. He knew that Tom Riddle had fucked women too (and how exactly had Dumbledore acquired all those memories?) but Harry wanted to play only for one side. Well, it did not matter. He was in bed with death.

"How will you kill me?"

"Depends. Will you fellate me?"

Harry frowned.

"Suck my cock," Voldemort translated helpfully.

"I am not-", Harry began furiously, only to relent upon seeing the evil glint in Voldemort's eyes. "Fine."

It might make the difference between a drawn-out death and a mercifully short one. A part of him wanted Voldemort to make that sound he had made earlier, when he had arched helplessly into Harry's palm.

"Take your clothes off," Harry asked, sitting up.

For the first time, Voldemort looked hesitant. Harry would have called the expression troubled, but he knew better.

"What?"

Voldemort shook his head and replied, "I was only amusing myself, Harry."

Harry knew he had the persistency of a bulldog. Hermione hated it when Harry prodded too much with his search for answers. He had learned to retreat when the set of her jaws indicated rising anger. Ron was much more tolerant of Harry's curiosity.

Now, with Voldemort's gaze darting away from Harry's, Harry had to ask again, "Take off your clothes so that I can fellate you."

He managed to even say that without blushing or stuttering. Harry considered that impressive for a teenaged virgin that was not gay.

"Take your pants off," Voldemort snapped, clearly not expecting Harry to obey.

"Fine!" Harry shouted and dragged them off his legs. Voldemort looked surprised and then quickly looked away as if concerned he might be caught looking. Harry grinned. He had done that often enough in the shower-stalls after Quidditch. Voldemort seemed to realize the ridiculousness, for he quickly brought back his gaze to stare at Harry appraisingly.

Harry suppressed the urge to pull his pants back on. This had been the stuff of his nightmares: one day, he would be in bed, ready to have sex with a girl, and she would burst out laughing when she saw him naked. Voldemort had not been part of that equation, but Harry reflected despondently that Voldemort somehow managed to make himself part of every equation in Harry's life.

"Lovely boy," Voldemort said, as if irked.

Harry stared at him.

Voldemort grimaced and said, "Except for the ribs."

Harry decided that blaming Voldemort for his Aunt's hospitality would not serve him. So he just stumbled forward until he had reached Voldemort and with shaking fingers placed his hands on the lapel of Voldemort's robes.

"I am not Tom Riddle," Voldemort said seriously.

Harry wondered what that meant. Before he could reply, Voldemort had whispered a word and his clothes slid away into nothingness, leaving scarred, mutilated skin open to Harry's eyes.

"What-"

Harry bit his lip before he asked the rest of the question. Fellate first, he decided, and tried to keep his breathing level and his fingers firm.  
He looked down once and a queer sort of laugh escaped him. His hands were shaking. Voldemort lay back, eyes wary, and his hand came to Harry's hips, pressing him down.

"Put your lips on my navel, wet and warm," he instructed.

Harry could do that.

"Close your eyes now. Inhale. Deeper. Take a deeper breath now. Good. Lave your tongue downward in small movements."

Harry felt the rough, soft texture of scarred skin under his tongue and that was not enough. He brought his fingers to join the exploration. Voldemort was not still and Harry could feel sinew shifting beneath skin as he explored. Harry could feel the iron control bleeding at the edges in Voldemort's voice, punctuated by sharp gasps. He took a deep breath and smelled arousal. Now it was his turn to gasp and rock against the linen. Instinct overrode his better judgement and he let his lips descend to lick and lave at the warm, rigid cock that was bobbing insistently against Harry's skin.

Voldemort's hands came to rest in Harry's hair, and Harry could sense that only restraint prevented them from pulling. He had seen that happen, often enough, in Ron's magazines. It had reduced his arousal during masturbation sessions. Harry had often wondered why women let men do that. With Voldemort's cock in his mouth, Harry decided that he would not like his hair pulled and that it was rather decent of Voldemort to refrain from such antics. Voldemort, uncharacteristically for him, seemed to be quiet and patient in bed.

"Get away."

Voldemort's voice was a rasp, devoid of control or premeditation.

Harry kept licking. He liked where he was and he liked what he was doing. Voldemort seemed to be in no state to oppose that. Harry knew he might pay for that later, but did it matter?

Voldemort's hands tugged at Harry's hair, but Harry responded with more ferocious licking. He felt Voldemort's body shudder and still and shudder again, before he felt liquid stain his face. The cry Voldemort made was enough to tip Harry over too. They stayed like that for a while, until the cuckoo ventured out from its clock to meddle with Harry's langour.

Harry decided he had had enough of nesting his face between Voldemort's legs, and moved upwards. He was about to roll over and recover when Voldemort's hands came to drag him close. Harry's protest had only formed in his mind before it was wiped away by Voldemort's tongue laving his face clean. Harry felt shudders coursing through his body and tinges of arousal reawakening.

"You are wrong," Harry told him, once he had recovered from the unexpected eroticism of the act.

It was a testament to Voldemort's sex-muddled state that Harry only received a questioning hum in response.

"You are every bit as sexy as Riddle was," Harry said.

"Sex makes you talkative and more of an idiot than you usually are, doesn't it?"

"How would I know?" Harry asked peaceably. "This is the first time."

"The third time, if you had cared to keep count."

"I think you count by sessions, not times. Besides, real sex is not this. It needs…you know!"

Voldemort did not reply. Harry felt pleasantly drowsy and the ceiling had the most beautiful geometric patterns.

"Derrick Watson died in France," Voldemort said, breaking their post-coital silence and the thread of Harry's musings.

"Oh."

"He was in exile," Voldemort continued. "For buggering men. The sex was real enough to ruin his life."

Harry turned to face Voldemort. There was no emotion on his companion's face. Trying to tread carefully, Harry asked, "Was he one of yours?"

"No. He was in the Ministry. Boring man. Boring job."

"I thought you liked him," Harry said in a small voice, remembering well the adoration on Derrick Watson's face when he had got on his knees to suck young Riddle off.

"Wouldn't Dumbledore have anything to say about that, I wonder?"

Lord Voldemort has no friends, Dumbledore had told Harry often. He did not need them.

"Your drug has some interesting effects, certainly," Voldemort muttered then, sounding tired and cross. "I haven't thought of Derrick Watson in years."

Harry felt the need to say, "It is a Muggle tranquilizer dart."

"For taking out savage beasts, no doubt," Voldemort replied. "My body is not reacting well to it. You are lucky that your blood in my veins protects you from the worst of the reaction."

Somehow, Harry felt that it was more Voldemort's obsessive control-freakishness that protected Harry from the worst of it.

And somehow, Harry was unsurprised when he jerked awake in the early hours of dawn, in a strange bed, sprawled over Voldemort's scarred, scrawny body, his cock painting pre-ejaculate over sleep-warm skin. Harry blushed. More than anything else, right then, he wanted to come on Voldemort's back. He carefully shifted his weight away and settled at the far side of the bed. He could not sense Voldemort in his mind, so the man must be still asleep and unaware.

By the time Harry woke up again, he could smell tea and toast.

"Am I entitled to a last meal?"

"Only if it is supper, Jesus."

Harry's stomach complained and he quickly asked, "What if I need to keep my strength until then?"

"Oh, why would you need to?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Harry asked, even attempting a coy look that failed judging by the unimpressed look Voldemort gave him.

"I am not drugged anymore, Harry."

Harry stared at him. Then he made an impulsive decision that was likely the worst in a life full of impulsive decisions, and asked, "Does that matter?"

It seemed to be the right answer, for in the next instant, Harry found himself still alive and in possession of toast and tea. Voldemort sat by him and watched him carefully.

The devil must have been in Harry, for he leaned forward and asked, "Since I am about to die and all, do I get to experience a morning-after kiss?"

Voldemort stared at him. Then his lips twitched and he said, "We wouldn't want to deprive you of the experience. I must confess that I have always wanted to be willingly kissed by a hero." Here, he darted Harry a challenging glance.

Harry grinned. He could do that dare. He leaned forward and kissed Voldemort, full on his mouth, and because he could, he bit sharply at the thin lower lip.

Voldemort's arms came to hold the breakfast tray, because Harry's were too busy gripping him by the shoulders. Then Harry tried what he saw Hermione and Ron do so often. He stuck his tongue inside Voldemort's mouth and began licking. It was a terrifying, exhilarating experience and Harry was panting breathlessly by the time

Voldemort joined the kiss, curling his tongue around Harry's and teaching him the dance in a manner more refined and purposeful than Harry's so far had been.  
When they parted, Voldemort shoved the tray back onto Harry's lap.

"Wow."

"Look at what you have done," Voldemort tsked, pointing to his lip that had begun bleeding after Harry's bite.

"It is passion. I get excused for passion." Harry decided to be generous and leaned in to lick the blood away.

"There is snake-venom in my blood," Voldemort said irritably, stealing a piece of Harry's toast. "I hope you die of passionate poisoning."

"I won't. Your blood, technically, is my blood too, after all," Harry said confidently. "Here, have one more piece of toast, won't you? I have buttered it for you."

"Your innuendo is appalling. As is your lack of fear to the prospect of death by poison. As is your lack of grasp over magical principles."

"It could be worse. I could be dying of a sexually transmitted disease you gave me."

"Maybe you have given me one. My blood is your blood, after all."

"Teenage virgin. Not gay."

"Ah, yes, how could I forget that? I had expected you to be in a magnificent menage-a-trois with your friends."

"What is that?" Harry asked, trying to wrap his tongue around the word and failing. It sounded like something Petunia might order for a tea-party.

"What do they teach you at school these days, I wonder?"

"Well, what is it?"

"A threesome, Harry."

"Oh!" Harry blushed. He had imagined himself between Ron and Hermione sometimes, and felt guilty about it whenever he had faced them the next day at breakfast. He had imagined that Ron would be patient and steady, helping Harry overcome his shyness slowly, while Hermione would be bossy and impatient.

"I could always call Nagini," Voldemort offered, licking the crumbs off Harry's fingers placidly.

"No!" Harry squeaked, shocked. "Of course not!" Then his mind short-circuited and he could not get the idea out of his head. Curiosity would be the death of him, he thought, as he asked timidly, "Do you?"

Voldemort swiped his tongue between the webs of Harry's fingers before saying, "She is a special creature. Comes from India, as Dumbledore might have told you. Some cultures in India revere hermaphrodites. Nagini is a hermaphrodite snake. Very rare."

"Does that mean-?" Harry coughed, failing to complete the sentence. Did that mean the snake could fuck Voldemort as well as get fucked by Voldemort? No, he had never seen a Pensieve memory of Riddle getting fucked. Surely, Dumbledore would have known. Besides, Voldemort was too much of a controlling bastard to enjoy that arrangement, surely? Harry stopped his imagination before it ran amok.

"She has a hemipenes. Yes. As well as a cloaca. It is fascinating."

"Yes, well, but does it fascinate you?"

"I haven't tried. I have only come into possession of a body recently, after all, blood of my blood."

"I think I get to say that," Harry muttered, wincing at his memory of that night. "It is my blood in your veins and not the other way around."

Voldemort was about to reply, and Harry knew it would be something scathing and possibly lead to his torture and death, so he quickly asked, "If I were you, I would have had lots of sex after I got my body back."

"Note the teenager's opinion," Voldemort said, his voice bearing amusement. "Yet, Harry, why were you a virgin until yesterday night?"

"I was waiting for the right girl," Harry muttered, now feeling foolish about it all. He clearly should have taken up Cho on her offer. Sex was good. Why had he ever thought waiting for it was important?

"Ever thought of getting fucked, hero-mine?"

"Don't call me that!" Harry protested, to cover up his discomfort and blushing.

"I see," Voldemort said with an evil smile. "I shall instruct you on the steps necessary to fuck yourself on my cock."

Harry did not care overmuch for Voldemort's spellwork which made his insides slippery and made him leak.

That changed. Harry cared very much, twenty minutes later, when he found himself panting and swearing and putting his Quidditch-trained thighs to excellent use. Voldemort's instructions had ceased making sense a while ago, when they had devolved into rasps in Latin. Harry knew enough Latin from his Charms class to blush at some of the words. The cuckoo burst out of its clock to sound a hour-note, but squawked and went back into hiding upon seeing the scene unfolding on the bed. Harry wondered what Aurors or the Order would make of it all if they broke in to rescue him. He hoped he had enough presence of mind to roll over before they started cursing his partner. And this train of thought was wiped into obliteration by Voldemort losing control, surging up to grip Harry by the hips and rolling them over. Harry gasped as Voldemort thrust into him steadily and deep, striking places in him Harry had not known would bring such maddening pleasure.

"Touch yourself," Voldemort ordered. "Come with me."

Harry did so, and it was only natural, given the circumstances, Harry reflected, that when Voldemort collapsed atop him, Harry gripped him by the neck and kissed him long and deep. He seemed to have surprised the man, for Voldemort's mouth opened easily and let Harry surge in and explore at whim.

"Let me clean you," Voldemort breathed when Harry finally let go. "I need my wand. Was never any good at cleaning spells wandless. Dumbledore finds it amusing. He wrote an article about it in the Transfiguration Monthly of December 74."

"Stop talking," Harry muttered, wanting only silence and skin. He winced as Voldemort pulled out of him. He reached out to stop Voldemort from rolling to the side. The weight was pleasant.

"It will stop being pleasing very soon, Harry."

Harry suspected as much. The leaky feeling between his legs was irritating. Still, Harry decided to indulge in the sensation, and dragged his fingers over the scars on Voldemort's back. They were old and even, in parallel lines over his ribs, going around to the front of his body, over his chest, which surprised Harry. Strange pattern for a curse, was it not? Had Voldemort had them before his death? Harry could not remember if he had seen them during the graveyard ritual. Harry wondered if Voldemort minded him playing with the scars, but he had not heard a remonstration, so he continued with his exploration. Harry wondered if Voldemort was curious about Harry's scars, awarded by the Dursleys for his incurably criminal behaviour. Harry's fingers had reached the base of Voldemort's spine and he hesitated, worried if Voldemort might react with anger to Harry touching any further down. Power and manliness went hand in hand, did they not? Harry bit his lip as he wondered what that meant about him. He had let himself get fucked and enjoyed it. Was he less of a man? Was he more feminine? Ron might think so.

"It is only sex," Voldemort murmured sleepily. "Stop thinking or bring up your Occlumency shields."

"Hold on!" Harry said, worried. "Does that mean you know what I think all the time?"

"We have been in each other's minds for a very long time, Harry. I suspect we just ignore the leakage from the other person's mind without effort by now, except when in proximity."

Dumbledore had said something about proximity affecting their bond, Harry remembered dimly. He was about to ask another question, when Voldemort made an irritated noise and darkness blanketed Harry's mind whole, sending him off to sleep.

When he woke again, Harry found afternoon sunlight washing the bed bright. He winced as he sat up. There were unfamiliar sores and aches in his body. He smelled of sex. He could hear the sound of running water across the room. A bath. He wondered what the protocol was, but he really needed to piss and he did not think the window was an option. For all he knew, they could be at Malfoy Manor and he might end up pissing into Narcissa's afternoon tea.

He walked to the bathroom door and knocked, adjusting his weight from one foot to the other. A spell shot out and before he could jump out of its way, struck him square in the stomach. He no longer needed to piss.

"Stay out of my mind!" Harry shouted, before trudging back to the window and looking out.

It seemed to be some sort of forested area for miles and miles around, as far his eye could see. The temporary vision-correcting spell he had thrown on before leaving school was wearing off. Harry had not thought to shrink and bring his glasses on his ninja adventure. Unfortunate. He had wanted to see Voldemort's body in the sunlight proper.

He smelled fennel and rosemary before arms dragged him from the window and tugged him towards the bath.

"You stink," he was informed.

"Whose fault is that?"

"Certainly not my fault that you cannot calculate drug dosage, and that you cannot kill a drugged victim."

"I won't kill myself. Or do anything evil," Harry said, trying to shove the door shut. Voldemort lithely slipped in to the room and slid the door threw up his hands in exasperation.

"I am curious, Harry. I want to see how a good, little, Gryffindor hero brings himself off in the bath."

Oh, he wanted a show. Harry blushed, feeling both daring and embarrassed. He had become used to being nude around Voldemort, but this was more intimate, wasn't it? Harry shook his head. He had been fucked by the man, after all. What could be more intimate than that?

"Instructions, instructions," Voldemort said with a tried-upon sigh. "Fine, I shall give you some."

Harry suspected Voldemort liked giving instructions.

"Take that bar of soap. Fennel and rosemary, Harry. I noticed you smelling me earlier. Would you like to use the same soap? It touched me everywhere."

Harry's face was red, he was quite sure. To give himself something to do, instead of standing there facing Voldemort with his erection, he grabbed the soap bar and jumped into the bath. Water splashed off the edges, and Harry blushed more at his clumsiness.

"Rub the soap over your chest. In slow circles now. Pay particular attention to your nipples, won't you? They seem to like that, don't they? Slower, Harry. Don't rush so."

On and on it went, until Harry was quite sure that he would come at the next brush of soap on skin.

"We can't have that," Voldemort said, and something wrapped around Harry's cock preventing him from coming.

Harry cursed and whimpered.

"Clean your cock now, Harry. Pay attention to the foreskin. Pull it back, clean underneath. Good boy. You are such a good boy. Now clean your arse. It must be really filthy. I could see my come leaking out of you earlier. Put your fingers in and draw the come out, Harry. Next time, we should do something about that. It wouldn't do to ruin the sheets, would it? We will plug you and keep it all in you."

Harry felt that Voldemort really was in the wrong job. He could have become a millionaire chatting up people on a phone-sex line, the sort Petunia used when Vernon was not home. Voldemort was saying something, but Harry was too busy enjoying his fingers. He felt a strong grip on his hand and the fingers were abruptly dragged out.

"Frigging yourself like a little harlot in a dock-side alley," Voldemort said then.

Harry whined. He knew he would eventually be dead, but he wanted to come first.

"Get out of the bath," Voldemort ordered. "Into the bedroom. Lie flat on your back on the bed. Spread your legs, as wide as they will go. If you have difficulty doing so, I can tie you up."


	2. On the subject of catsuits

Harry thought he was going to get fucked again. He winced at the soreness that would result. How did women cope? Was it good to do it so frequently? Still, it was magnificent when the act was in progress.

He found himself surprised when he felt a blindfold wrap around his eyes. It was the same silken mask he had come with the previous night. He felt Voldemort's fingers on his cock then and whimpered at the sensation. Voldemort laughed and moved his fingers downward, to tap lightly against Harry's hole.

"You should see yourself. All puffy and loose, still. Asking for it, one might say."

Harry was. He was digging into Voldemort's fingers, trying to get them in. Then he was jerking off the bed as something warm and wet came to envelop his cock whole. He could hear the sound of coughing, and then a laugh, and then restraints pushing Harry by the waist into the bed, holding his hips still.

The mouth returned and the fingers danced a merry tune on Harry's arsehole and the ridge between balls and arse.

There was only silence, punctuated by Harry's moans and shouts, by Voldemort's slurping and swallowing, and the occasional cough as Voldemort retreated. Harry wondered, with the few sparks of mind he had left, why Voldemort was gagging on his cock so often. He was not big, compared to Ron or Seamus. Perhaps, Voldemort had not frequently done this before. It was considered a subservient act, right? Harry found Voldemort's occasional coughing incredibly erotic, nonetheless, feeling more of a man now that he had managed to make someone gag on his cock.

Then Voldemort raked his teeth over Harry's cock and the magic holding Harry wrapped burst, and with it burst Harry too. He had barely come down when his body convulsed again, at the sounds of the fast gulps as Voldemort swallowed his come. He had to see it. He dragged the blindfold off and moaned as he saw the trail of come still connecting Voldemort's lips and his cock. Voldemort looked hesitant upon seeing that Harry was staring at him, but seemed to come to a decision and bent his head to lick off the last of the come daintily, right off Harry's cock.

"Fuck," Harry whispered, and dove to catch Voldemort's lips. Voldemort kept his lips closed, but Harry pushed in and tasted his come mixed with the clean taste of Voldemort's mouth.

"That is considered quite gay in some circles," Voldemort muttered, when Harry had finished.

"Is that why you blindfolded me?" Harry asked. "I would have loved to see that. All of that." He shuddered as the eroticism of it registered afresh on his mind.

Hearing Voldemort's noncommittal hum, Harry suspected the greater portion of it was the man's perfectionism and being unwilling to let Harry see that him suck cock with anything less than absolute mastery.

"You were very good," Harry said sincerely.

"What do you have to compare it by?" Voldemort asked, clearly disbelieving.

"Well, I couldn't even get half of your cock into my mouth," Harry pointed out.

"I have considerably more experience in the art of cock-sucking," Voldemort said, with a wry smile, pushing Harry down onto the bed and then lying atop him, limbs sprawled, caging Harry in.

"The art of cock-sucking?" Harry laughed. "Was this too a part of the old curriculum at Hogwarts?"

"I learned it in London, if you must know," Voldemort replied.

"I had thought of doing that, a few times," Harry said, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden, thinking back to his days before Dumbledore had threatened the Dursleys, when hunger had driven him into the streets to scavenge. Voldemort had said it without malice or bitterness. "I couldn't bring myself to it."

"I am not surprised. You don't seem capable of the level of premeditation required for such an adventure."

"If you have a lot of experience, why didn't you believe me?"

"I have grown out of practice, as you clearly could see. It is polite of you not to remark upon it. Good etiquette, of course. I haven't had much reason or desire to practise it in recent times."

"Then why-?" Harry cut off before he could say something impolite.

"I wanted to. Under the right circumstances, I like sucking cock. Is that so strange to believe?"

"It is only that I thought you might not want to."

"You are confusing yourself needlessly with your notions of masculinity and strength. You cast a Patronus at thirteen. I killed my father at fifteen. You fought me in a graveyard alone and bleeding. I fought Dumbledore in Albania when I was little more than the meanest spirit. Do you think we aren't strong enough or masculine enough because of sucking cock?"

Harry thought about all the times he had been teased for being built like a girl. Ron called him too pretty to be a bloke. Ginny's dates, whenever she had a falling out with Harry, was with more manly-looking sorts.

"Was it like this when you were in school?"

"Children can be..swift to call names," Voldemort replied absently. "My clothes at the orphanage were often hand-me-down frocks from the older girls. I was a small boy so those fit me better."

"Did that bother you?"

Harry suspected it did not. Why would Voldemort speak of it if it was still something that bothered him?

"No, truly," Voldemort murmured, rising to pull the blankets over their bodies, to ward against the draught through the window. "You must have seen Pensieve memories which bear that out. Dumbledore likes to be thorough."

Harry wondered if war was fought like this, with each side knowing what the other might do. Dumbledore certainly seemed to know whatever Voldemort planned, just as Voldemort knew what the Order planned. Was Snape really that useless for both sides?

"Severus knows to maintain the exact level of usefulness at all times, with all parties, to ensure his continued existence."

Harry thought back to his Occlumency lessons. Snape certainly had managed to meet Dumbledore's criteria and Voldemort's, and also managed to throw a fair amount of personal vendetta in.

"As charming as this has been, you must return."

"I can't!" Harry exclaimed, horrified. "Dumbledore will take one look at me and know everything." Besides, how was he going to face Ron and Hermione? Or anyone else? What would he say? How could he explain?

"I don't see horns over your head proclaiming your taint," Voldemort said. "Don't make eye-contact with Dumbledore, if you care to keep him ignorant. Throw wicked fantasies at him if he is curious."

"Don't you care?"

"He likely has hundreds of bottles in his store-room pertaining to my sex life, Harry. I am not bothered by one more."

"He will want to know why you didn't kill me!"

"No, he won't."

"What? Well, I want to know why you haven't killed me!" Harry shouted, tugging at his hair with his hands in exasperation.

"Dumbledore knows why. Go bother him."

Harry knew he should not look a gift-horse in the mouth, particularly when the gift-horse was both sex and a continued lease on life. Still, he was irked. He had spent all those hours worrying endlessly over his death while Voldemort had all along planned to send him back. His life, Harry reflected grimly, was a tennis ball being hit back and forth by Dumbledore and Voldemort, one twinkling and the other grinning evil grins. At least, he comforted himself, he got some good sex out of Voldemort. Dumbledore, on the other hand, …

"Is Dumbledore gay?"

"I don't think so. Why would you want to know? Is it that you look up to him, and if he fucks men, it is all right if you fuck men too?"

"What? No! I was just curious about his robes."

"Forgive me for assuming you were muddled in typical adolescent strains of thought."

"I don't know how to return."

"Ah, yes, no bond to follow. Such an inconvenience for our one, true hero."

"If you won't tell me how, I will stay here," Harry said, spreading his legs and curling his toes into the bed. "I don't mind gay sex." He batted his eyelashes hopefully.

Voldemort looked revolted, and mentioned something about knowing how to create a portkey. Then he smiled. It was that evil smile. Harry knew it well.

"What?"

"Tell me, Harry, have you ever given a thought to getting fucked like a dog in heat?"

"Oh!" Harry's mind helped Voldemort along, spinning fantasies at what truly must be the speed of light. Harry gulped.

"I can oblige," Voldemort said helpfully. "I do have a condition."

Harry wondered what that could be. He was on board whatever it could be, he knew. He needed this now, to see why all those women in Ron's magazines looked as if they had gone to heaven. For knowledge. It was all for knowledge.

"You must put your catsuit on," Voldemort said.

Harry glared at the man. Really, of all the kinks to have. Harry found the suit uncomfortable. Still, one had to look the proper part of a sneaky assassin, or so one had realized after watching all those pulp films Mrs. Figg hoarded.

"You can't! It is a sacred part of popular culture's assassins. It isn't for your…fetish!"

Voldemort looked unimpressed. Harry huffed and put the damned suit back on. He had to work the zipper up and knew he would have to fumble around.

"You can zip me back up," Harry told Voldemort.

"Yes, of course." Voldemort was all gracious helpfulness. Harry could, for the first time, see a bit of Tom Riddle in him.

"Lovely," Voldemort murmured, zipping him back up in one fluid motion. He placed an index finger over Harry's arse and made a circular motion. Harry could feel fabric shifting and cool air hit his arse.

"Lovelier now," Voldemort commented. "Get on your hands and knees. If you are very good, I will conjure you a mirror to watch us."

Voldemort really was wasted on torture and murder, Harry thought as he quickly obeyed. A mirror! This was stuff beyond even those magazines and Harry's imagination. Ha, nobody in his year had ever got sex this good, Harry was sure.

Voldemort was rough and steady, but still mindful of Harry's secret places that brought so much pleasure. Each stroke hit Harry's teetering mind off a ledge into an abyss. The mirror materialized half-way through the performance and Harry knew he did not stop groaning after that. He could not close his eyes. There was him, in that ridiculous catsuit, and there was Voldemort, nude and scarred, surging into him, eyes closed and hands gripping Harry's waist so tightly that Harry half-expected them to sink through his skin and reach his bones. Harry tried to push back and it drove Voldemort wilder, from what Harry could see.

"Look at me!" Harry demanded, wanting Voldemort to open his eyes and see him. How unfair that the catsuit was going unremarked upon!

Voldemort opened his eyes and took in the sight before swearing in Latin and coming, falling onto Harry in a collapse of sweat and limbs. Harry held still, trying to clench, knowing that each clench brought him Voldemort's moans and swears. The noises and the extended stimulation brought Harry off.

As they lay there, too tired to move, Harry said, "I will turn up for the final battle in a catsuit."

Voldemort groaned and tried to move his weight off Harry, failing.

Half an hour later, Harry found it very, very difficult to explain why he was wearing a catsuit to a worried Ron and Hermione who had been searching for him since Ron had woken up and found Harry missing.

"Is that a _tail_?" Hermione screeched, and all of Gryffindor flocked to the screech. Harry tried to hide the tail, because he had no intention of explaining that the tail had been a portkey plugged into his arse ( _to make sure you reach there intact and safe_ , Voldemort had said patting the base sharply just to hear Harry squeal).

"It was a dare," Harry said, waving it off. "Waged against the pride of Gryffindor."

Ron accepted the answer, but Hermione did not. Harry rushed to his bed, drew the curtains, extricated the tail out of his arse and glared at it. Then he rushed down for supper, only to find himself poking at steak-and-kidney pie while Snape, Dumbledore and Hermione all stared at him with varying degrees of thoughtfulness and suspicion.


	3. Lest I remember

When Ginny placed her hand on Harry's thigh, it felt soft and warm and small. Harry brought his hand to gently and firmly grab the appendage and set it back upon the table.

When Ron dragged Hermione into a long kiss as soon as they had left the Hall, Harry no longer felt like the awkward third-wheel who never knew when to look and when to look away. Instead, he walked away calmly, without jealousy or curiosity.

Dumbledore called him for a chat. Harry and he had come to better terms after Harry's Sixth Year, when Grindelwald had broken out of prison, when the whole of Europe had become embroiled in war, forcing Dumbledore to take Harry into his confidence more. Harry, for his part, thought that he had matured under Dumbledore's tutoring, and even if he had not had any practical training, he felt much more comfortable being the face of the Order to the Ministry, repeatedly. During the year that should have been Harry's Seventh Year, when Dumbledore had temporarily left for Europe to coordinate efforts there, Hogwarts had been closed. Lucius Malfoy and the Board of Governors had refused to countenance operating a school under the threat of Grindelwald's invasion. Harry had found that ironic, given how Malfoy had no compunction about operating a school when under the threat of Voldemort.

That had been a difficult year. Bellatrix Lestrange had wreaked havoc in the country. There had been multiple breakouts from Azkaban. Yet, the Ministry and the Aurors were more concerned by the threat in Europe, as Grindelwald amassed forces and marched towards France. After all, nobody had seen Voldemort in ages and Grindelwald was a more immediate issue. In the beginning, there had been concerns that Grindelwald might cooperate with Voldemort, but Dumbledore had said correctly that Voldemort did not share power. Harry knew that the scale of operations Grindelwald was handling was massive, compared to what Voldemort did. Perhaps, as Dumbledore once had said, Voldemort could not compromise at all on anything and did not court alliances the way Dumbledore or Grindelwald did.

Dumbledore's plans had at least ensured that Normandy remained standing as the last frontier between Grindelwald and Britain. Harry suspected Grindelwald was merely recouping, but Dumbledore had seemingly more time to spend on hunting Voldemort these days, and they had re-opened the school, so the threat at the borders must have been less pressing.

Harry and Ron had spent the year at the Weasleys, collating information, passing messages on to Order members, and preparing for the Auror examinations. Hermione had been indispensable, working with Unspeakables, ciphering and deciphering Runes day and night, each time the Aurors intercepted Owls. Harry also had the more onerous task of dealing with the Minister, who had high hopes of bringing him in as a poster-boy for the Ministry response to Grindelwald.

"It has been two difficult years," Dumbledore said then, cutting into Harry's thoughts as he effortlessly often did.

"Yes," Harry said with a weary smile. "Any news?"

"Troop movements in the South of Germany," Dumbledore replied. "Nothing concrete through our channels of communication. Never mind that, Harry. You have been preoccupied of late. Something on your mind that I could help with?"

Harry hoped to hell that Voldemort's advice to fantasize about Dumbledore worked. It seemed to throw Dumbledore off, for a few seconds, before he recouped and said gamely, "I understand that teenage is a difficult time, in so many ways. Harry, regardless of whatever it might be, my door is always open to you."

Snape was more difficult. Harry tried the same strategy, only for Snape to look all offended and go into a tirade about Harry's father and how the apple did not fall from the tree. Then he seemed to wake up from his rant and glared at Harry.

"What are you hiding?" he demanded.

Harry threw back more fantasies of sucking Snape off while Malfoy watched on. Damn, this was hard work.

Snape narrowed his eyes, muttered the hated spell, and slammed against Harry's mind. Ron's magazines came to view, and then Harry's fantasies about Ron and Hermione.

"Read something useful!" Snape howled, furious. "If I catch you thinking about this puerile garbage in class, I will confiscate them all!"

Harry nodded and quickly left the classroom.

Hermione was the most difficult. She did not have a spell to aid her, but she did not need that. She harangued Harry with questions, every meal, in between classes. The more he tried to wave her off, the more convinced she was that there was something to hide.

"Is it because you have to return to the Dursleys next week?"

Harry had forgotten about that. He said, "After Dumbledore's intervention, they haven't been all that bad."

Speaking of which, he ought to go find Cho and have sex before he had to leave for the summer. So he did that. Then he managed to find himself fucking Pansy and that was an eye-opener. She was so wild in bed, tying him up and then riding his cock until she had collapsed from multiple orgasms. Then there was Susan Bones, who was so staid and proper in bed that Harry was afraid of offending her somehow.

Ron was all agog at how Harry had managed these feats. Harry suspected Ron would not like hearing the real reason behind his confidence.

Still, there was something missing, even with Pansy. Harry wondered if it was merely the difference between sex with men and with women. Or it could be power, Harry theorized. Voldemort had so many things effortlessly with magic, like that mirror and the cockring that still made Harry blush, and the tail that Harry was yet to live down. It could be experience too. Teenagers did not have that much, unless they were Tom Riddle.

* * *

When Harry returned to the Dursleys, he knew he wanted to try sex with an older woman. He wanted to see how much experience could add to the game.

As soon as his relatives had gone off on vacation to Brighton, Harry put on his nicest jeans (that was not saying much) and a clean T-shirt, and took off to London. There was a Muggle night-club that Harry had heard so much about from Fred and George. He waved his fake ID and got in.

It was too loud and there were lights everywhere flashing. Harry took a deep breath to get used to the ruckus. There were couples dancing madly on the floor. Harry walked to the bar. An older woman. Right.

It seemed to be just his night, because a lady in her forties came to him and asked in a very sensual voice, "May I buy you a drink?"

Kissing her was a sumptuous experience. She tasted of expensive tequila and cake. Her lipstick clung to his skin as they broke for breath. Her thigh was toned when he gripped it. Her breasts were full and pendulous. Harry wanted to stick his cock between them like he had once seen Riddle do in a Pensieve memory. Speaking of which, he needed to show Ron this one. Oh, yum! He could just imagine the envy and wonder on Ron's face.

Harry went with her to her flat, a small one-bedroom in Kensington. There were photos plastered over her wall, of her family, of what seemed to be her kids. For the first time, Harry felt a pang of uncertainty. She seemed to have sensed it, for she told him quickly, "I am divorced."

"Good," Harry said with relief. Then he said, flustered, "I did not mean it like that!"

"Quiet."

Harry fell quiet. She poured him a drink and came to sit by him on the large couch.

* * *

Harry came to in a large bed, naked, feeling quite disorientated and sore. He tried moving his limbs only to find them uncoordinated. Then he saw the blood on his hands. He tried to sit up and failed. Knowing that something had gone very, very wrong, and too afraid to stay there a moment longer, he tried to summon his wand. Dumbledore. Once he got his Patronus to Dumbledore, his Professor would fix this. His mind felt so sloppy and unfocussed, and his spell failed.

They must be searching for him. They would find him soon, right? Harry tried to summon his wand again, all the while trying not to look below his neck, afraid of what he might find.

Then he sensed sharpness and focus in a corner of his mind, lying dormant. Voldemort. He strived to reach that corner. The door opened and a man came in bearing a needle. He looked surprised to find Harry awake and quickly hurried over. Harry desperately attempted to fight him off. The corner in Harry's mind woke up, Harry's head felt like it was going into split into two, and heat seared through his eyes as spellwork blasted off his finger-tips. He smelled burned flesh and vomited. Voldemort was in him, trying to gauge the situation, and it must be Voldemort who had the common sense to look down and see what had happened to Harry's body. Harry fainted.

When he woke up, he was lying in an alley, near smelly bins that were overrun with cats, and Tonks was trying to enervate him.

* * *

"You remember nothing?" Dumbledore was asking him, looking as if he had aged years since the last time they had met. Had Grindelwald invaded? Was it a full-scale war?

"We have been so frightened!" Mrs. Weasley said, her eyes red with weeping and sleeplessness. "We have been looking for you for days. Your Aunt told us you were missing as soon as she got back home, but she didn't know where you might have gone."

"Where is my wand?" Harry croaked. Dumbledore gave Mrs. Weasley a reassuring glance and placed a slightly bent, familiar wand on Harry's lap. How had it been bent? Harry chewed his lip. He likely did not want to know.

"Tonks found it on you," Ron said. "She said it is the only reason why you are alive. You must have killed those people and then Disapparated the fuck out."

Harry felt sick all over again.

"I can't remember anything."

"They used a drug," Snape said, shifting uncomfortably. "It is called Rohypnol. You might have heard of it by its more common title, the date-rape drug. Amnesia is one of its side-effects."

"Why?"

Dumbledore looked torn. Snape sighed and asked Mrs. Weasley to leave. Ron patted Harry's hand and conveyed his mother out, shutting the door behind them.

"The woman was a part of a trafficking ring. They had sex with you, a number of times," Dumbledore said quietly. "We tried, Harry. We could not track you after the Muggle night-club. We were frightened. It was most unlike you to disappear like that without telling anyone. Ron thought you might have had an assignation with a woman there and wanted us to wait for a day before searching in earnest."

"How did Tonks find me?"

"She was just on her way home from patrol," Dumbledore said wearily.

"What happened to those people?" Harry asked, focussing on the practical questions, desperately.

"They are dead."

"You killed them," Snape cut in sharply, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else, but still determined. "They drugged you, they raped you, they were cutting you into shreds, they were starving you to death. You were weak and drugged, half immobile due to the overdose, and still you killed them all, got out of there, and that is the end of it. Don't let anyone tell you anything else. What you did to get out was the bravest thing I have seen anyone do. You must have had a powerful mind to battle that drug. I take back everything I said about your mind. I was wrong."

"Right," Harry said, roiling in the tumult, depressed and angry. "Right. Thank you."

"That will be quite enough, Severus," Dumbledore said strictly.

Snape huffed and left. Now it was just Dumbledore and Harry. Dumbledore sighed and cast the spell Barty Crouch had once cast on the same wand, to reveal the last few spells that had been cast.

Harry's eyes went wide at the number of Crucios and Killing Curses that revealed themselves. Voldemort had possessed him, body and wand. Harry knew he was alive only because of that, but he wished he had not seen the toll of it. Yet, knowing what he did now, based on what Snape had said they had done to him, he felt rage searing in him, wanting vengeance, and he felt cheated that Voldemort had got there first.

"It was not me."

"I guessed that," Dumbledore said heavily. "I could sense his magic all over you when Tonks brought you in. I suspect his mind was severely affected by your torment and he had to get you out for both your sakes."

"I wish it had been me," Harry spat.

"I am glad it was not," Dumbledore said firmly. "You have a long recovery ahead of you. There is no need to add anything more to it."

"You weren't worried that he had caught me and done…all this to me?" Harry asked, curious despite everything.

"I know him well, Harry. If you had been captured by him, I would worry more for your life than for your virtue."

"I went with the woman," Harry muttered. "It was my fault."

"No, it wasn't. Didn't you hear what Severus said? It was your misfortune, not your fault. You need to talk to someone, Harry. I am here, but you don't have to talk to me if you don't wish to. Anyone you choose. Remus, perhaps? Miss Granger?"

"Let me think," Harry said, to get Dumbledore off his case. Harry knew he would not talk to Hermione about this. Remus might understand. Harry bit his lip. What did he have to talk about? He didn't remember killing anyone. He didn't remember any of the rest either. He was bandaged heavily and likely looked like an Egyptian Mummy. Mrs. Weasley came in to feed him broth since his fingers were useless. She looked as if she were a step away from tears. Harry wanted to reassure her, but had no idea what to say. So they continued in silence and by the end of his meal, Harry felt he was one step away from tears.

Snape came in to fuss over his bandages and to pour potions down his throat.

"What are they for?"

"You overdosed on the drug," Snape said. "To fight the symptoms of overdose and withdrawal."

"Could you get me a book on this drug?" Harry asked, without much hope. "I would like to know what it does."

"It is chemistry and close enough to potions," Snape said, still unable to rein in his bitterness despite his best efforts.

"I will survive a book on chemistry," Harry assured him.

Snape nodded and left. He returned with a slim volume, which looked new but often leafed through. There were ringed marks of a coffee mug throughout. And there were the scribbles that Harry knew well how to decipher thanks to his time with a Potions book.

"I had Dumbledore purchase this," Snape explained when Harry quizzically looked at him. "I had not dealt with anything similar before, though I was familiar with the symptoms. I needed to know more. Madam Pomfrey is not here for the summer. You will just have to make do with my limited expertise. St. Mungo's will only be worse."

Harry, for the first time, realized how much Dumbledore and Snape must have done to make sure that he would recover.

"Thank you," Harry said, not knowing what else to say. Dumbledore must have been under a great amount of stress. Harry felt guilty about that, just as he felt guilty about Mrs. Weasley's tears and about Snape's gaunt, disheveled state.

The more he read, the more horrified he was. Harry thought he could not sleep, but Snape's potions made sure that he did so, and he slept, dreamlessly. When he woke again, determined, he sought in his mind Voldemort's darkness. He felt it, felt safer, and rested again.

"He has been quiet," Dumbledore said once, when he was sitting with Harry.

Harry looked up from his crossword puzzle. Mr. Weasley had brought him a Muggle book of puzzles. Harry, bored as he was, had quickly finished that. Then Mr. Weasley had brought him another which Harry had finished in a week. Then Dumbledore had brought him a book that gave him a new puzzle everyday for the next five years.

"The Lestranges have been busy recruiting, according to what Severus says," Dumbledore said. "Malfoy is busy with the Wizengamot. And nobody has seen Pettigrew at all."

"Maybe he wants to build his army first," Harry said, leaning back on his pillow-fort. Dumbledore often talked more about the war when he was sitting with Harry. Dumbledore offered information when Harry was not desperate to have it. What a contrary man!

"Perhaps you are right, Harry. I suspect something else is also going on. Can you feel it in your bond?"

"He has left me well alone," Harry replied honestly.

"Good."


	4. Through a glass darkly and then

Harry waited until the long summer was over. He waited until Snape and Dumbledore were busy with term-work. He waited until the students were back. Then he slid into his four-poster, closed the curtains, and dragged himself along the bond.

Voldemort's bedroom was still the same, except that it looked more disorderly and lived in. Did the man stay here all the time?

"Harry," Voldemort's voice greeted him from the bathroom. "I can join you in a moment."

Harry went to the bathroom. The door was open. Voldemort was seated on the floor, had gloves on and was stirring something, oily and smelling of rosemary and fennel, in a mixing-bowl. He had dark goggles on and looked like a character out of Dudley's steampunk picture novels.

"I was in the middle of my soap-making," Voldemort explained. "Don't come too close. The smells are strong. I need to add the lye and stir for a few minutes."

Fascinated, Harry came close anyway. "Can I watch?"

"What?" Voldemort asked distractedly, keeping his attention on the lye he was carefully adding. "Yes, yes, only be careful."

"Why do you do this?"

"I learned it in the orphanage. Soap-making was one of the many crafts the orphans were taught. It made a tidy profit before the war. People were willing to buy at church events. It made the whole endeavour of funding more useful to our benefactors than just the warm feel-good effects of charity. Then, during the War, it was for the soldiers. I suspect a great many of the soaps I made were used by men the day before they were left unburied in France by the retreating armies. It now helps me focus and think. I like working with my hands. This is as good and useful a distraction as any, and one I enjoy more than the others."

"At midnight?" Harry asked, stretching his legs out and watching Voldemort's hands deftly stirring.

"I don't fall sleep until the early hours of the morning," Voldemort replied. "As Dumbledore would have told you, doubtless."

Harry did remember Dumbledore saying something along those lines. He lazily watched Voldemort pouring the mixture into a waiting mould and then wrapping that with clean linen towels.

Harry liked hearing about the War. Voldemort did not speak of it often, but Harry had not seen him shy away from offering details if they were relevant to the conversation. It must have been around the same time that Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald, Harry reflected. Voldemort's memories were sharp and personal and focussed on his own experiences, containing little of the politics or the principles that Harry had read about in his history books in Muggle school.

Voldemort rose and put the mould away on a high shelf. Then he stretched and sighed, removed his gloves and goggles, and then offered Harry a hand up. Harry took it and was led back into the bedroom.

"I can't remember anything. It is strange, since the drug's amnesia should not be so complete, at least according to the book."

"I know. I Obliviated you rather thoroughly and I suspect Dumbledore will not mess with that, despite his aversion to my methods."

Harry sighed. He had suspected something like that. From his journeys through Dumbledore's pensieve, Harry knew of Voldemort's tendency to Obliviate anything that was too messy or difficult to deal with. He also knew of Dumbledore's tendency to step back and pretend everything was fine if someone else had done the dirty work already.

Did it matter? Harry would have wanted it done, if he had remembered.

"I had meant to open up the parlour across the corridor," Voldemort said, correctly sussing out Harry's discomfort on seeing that the bed was the only place to sit in the room. "Will the window-seat do?"

Harry moved gratefully towards the large and only bay-window. The night was full, without a moon, only relieved by a star here and there, and the forests were a carpet of black.

Voldemort sat upon the bed, at the edge, crossing his legs as if unsure what else to do.

"I came to thank you."

Voldemort did not reply. Harry faced him and was startled by the expression of uncertainty on the man's features. For the first time, they seemed to be on truly equal footing, with no clue as to how to proceed.

Harry took a deep breath and said, "In the beginning, I blamed you, you know. I was addicted to sex because of you, because of what we did here. At least, that was my reasoning. Then all that happened, and it was because of you, I thought."

Voldemort rose and made to say something, but Harry went on, "Then I realized that I had been lucky. I had had no caution with you. Luckily, I hadn't needed to. Somehow, I thought that meant it was all right not to have any caution at all, with anyone else."

"I don't think that is what happened," Voldemort said carefully. "I think what happened to you was misfortune. It could have happened to anyone. The government, the Muggle government, has statistics on this and it is alarming."

"That is what Dumbledore said, more or less."

"Even he is occasionally right."

"You got me out. Snape said it must have taken a powerful mind to battle the drug enough to be able to act."

"It is easier to act when your faculties are unaffected," Voldemort said dismissively. "My mind was not compromised by the drug, after all."

"You couldn't feel it before?"

"I could feel that you were involved in some carnal episode." Voldemort shrugged. "Since you have been promiscuous after our adventure, I thought it was more of the same. It is a habit, and an unconscious one, to stay out of your mind."

Right. Voldemort had mentioned something about that before. Leakages in proximity? Harry took a deep breath and asked what had been bothering him since he had woken up in that alley staring into Tonks's face.

"Dumbledore says I have to talk to someone."

"What is there to talk about? Your horrific Obliviation experience under my wand? Oh, it was your wand, and not mine."

"Thank you for that too."

"It seemed the easiest method to clean up that mess."

"Can I have sex?"

"I am neither a psychiatrist nor someone who knows you well enough. I cannot answer that question."

"Could we have sex right now?"

"I wouldn't recommend it."

"Do you want to? I want to."

Voldemort inhaled sharply. Then he asked in a quieter voice, "Don't you think Dumbledore might be keeping a keener eye on you?"

"He has let me be." Harry took a deep breath and began undressing. "I want to."

Voldemort looked doubtful of Harry's conviction. Harry himself was not convinced of the soundness of his idea. Still, he had to know.

"You will do as I say," Voldemort said.

That wasn't new, was it? Harry suppressed a smile and nodded. Voldemort glared at him and got on the bed, lying flat. He extended his limbs and Harry felt bile rise in his throat remembering that Snape had said something about Harry being tied up like that for days, almost cutting off circulation to his fingers and toes.

"Tie me up."

Harry shook his head, frightened. Voldemort lifted his head and beckoned imperiously.

"Come here, Harry. You promised to obey. If you can't, return."

Harry walked over. He was afraid to obey, but he was more afraid to return. He knew he would not get the chance to come here and try sex again if he returned.

"Good boy," Voldemort muttered when he felt Harry straddling him. "Spell the ropes tight, but not too tight to cut off circulation."

Fear flared bright in Voldemort's eyes when Harry moved his wand to obey. Harry gulped. This was as frightening to Voldemort as it was to Harry. The man had impressive command over his wandless magic, but he was still frightened as he lay there, letting the prophecy child tie him up.

"Good, well-done," Voldemort said, clearing his throat to make his voice steadier than it was.

"Don't take off your clothes yet. Take off mine first."

Harry obeyed. He was shaken by the rapid breathing of the body under him. Voldemort seemed tense and uncomfortable, and yet determined. It was too late to withdraw, Harry knew. The man had a stubborn streak rivalling Harry's, after all. Harry ran his fingers idly over Voldemort's chest and wondered if his scars were similar to Voldemort's. Did he have more now? Had he screamed when they had cut him open with their knives? Unable to deal with the turmoil in his mind, he turned his attention to Voldemort, who had kept his eyes open and fixed on Harry. Harry could sense that the man wanted to end this, to close his eyes and flee into the sanctum of his mind, away from vulnerability and the rising panic. Had Harry closed his eyes when they had done this to him? Had he been drugged out of his mind sufficiently to enjoy it? Harry touched Voldemort's sharp cheekbone and stroked it gently. Voldemort nodded and murmured a Latin incantation. His face tensed more.

"What did you do?" Harry asked, concerned.

Red spotted Voldemort's cheekbones, and he murmured, "You are familiar with it. A cock-ring. You must touch it to release me."

"If I don't?"

"Then it stays," Voldemort said irritably. "Prepare yourself, carefully, and then ride my cock."

Right. Harry thought they were both mad. Harry would not trust himself, right then, after everything that had happened and muddled his head so. Voldemort was mad, truly. Harry prepared himself, getting hard as he watched the cock-ring that held Voldemort, as he took in the ropes that held Voldemort. This would not end until Harry wanted. Overwhelmed by the inequality, Harry placed his hand on Voldemort's chest, feeling the quick, shallow breathing under his palm.

"Look at you," Harry murmured, overcome. He slid onto Voldemort's cock, trying to fight down the panic rising in his chest. It went away when he saw the slackness on Voldemort's face that had replaced the fear.

"Look at you," Harry said wonderingly, as he rose and fell. Voldemort was trying his best to surge, but the ropes held him still. Sweat poured down his collar-bones, down his chest, down the sharp angles of his pelvis. Harry felt his coordination slipping, his orgasm approaching, and he flexed his thighs, trying to hit that pleasure spot in him with each rise and fall.

As he fell upon Voldemort's chest, he could feel still the thickness in him holding him open. Despite himself, arousal crept in again. He glanced up at Voldemort, who had devolved into murmurs and groans.

"Open your eyes," Harry demanded.

Voldemort obeyed and shuddered. A wail half-escaped him before he brought his lips shut with effort.

Harry lifted himself off gingerly and touched the cock-ring. It fell open. Harry drew a finger down the ridge.

"Harry, I can't," Voldemort whispered, trying to stay still and failing.

Harry swooped in to kiss the man. Voldemort's hands clenched against the bonds, aborted in a move to hold Harry, and his hips thrust weakly against Harry in want, limited by his entrapment. Harry moved down, kissing and nibbling at Voldemort's neck and collarbones, down his chest, down his navel, and then upwards again. When he reached Voldemort's face again, he stuck two fingers into the slack mouth.

"Suck them for me."

Voldemort obeyed, without much coordination or grace. Harry did not grudge that. It was understandable, after all. When he drew his fingers out, Voldemort managed to open his eyes.

"Harry."

Harry brought his wand to the ropes and freed the man. Voldemort moved quickly, rolling them over, and sheathing himself into Harry's still slick and loose arse. He did not last past four strokes, but Harry did not care. He cared more about the trembling body atop him.

"Are you all right?" He asked, running his palms over the narrow back to soothe.

"Fine," Voldemort said, voice hoarse from overuse. "Are you?"

"More than fine," Harry told him honestly, letting his palms venture below Voldemort's waist for the first time, his usual hesitation obliterated by their activities. "You and your ideas."

"You like them all," Voldemort replied, stretching his hands and then bringing them closer to inspect the rope-welts. Harry winced upon seeing them.

"You bruise quickly," Harry remarked, bringing them close to press a kiss on the welts. It was true. Harry recollected that the places where he gripped Voldemort in passion turned red quickly. "If I had known, I would have stolen Snape's ointment that works wonders."

"It won't kill me," Voldemort said sleepily, rolling away to the side. "Pull the blankets up, and then get me a glass of water."

Harry did that and was about to slip back in, when Voldemort said sharply, "Harry, you can't afford to stay. Dumbledore will have search parties out by dawn, if someone reports you as missing."

"I suppose you will make me another port-key," Harry muttered, unhappy about the fact that he had to leave. It was easier here, when he did not have to bear Ron's and Hermione's concern, and Dumbledore's careful glances.

"If you are going to make this a habit, you will have to learn to make your own port-keys," Voldemort said. "Bring your wand here. I can't focus on anything at all right now, and it is your doing, so don't whinge too much if the port-key dumps you on the Isle of Man."

"Where is your wand?" Harry asked, irked at having to hand his over. Voldemort waved it and it made a happy jump in his hand. Traitor.

"I can't remember," Voldemort murmured. "Do be quiet and let me laze. Your wand is your port-key now, and a permanent one. It will always take you to where you belong."

"Oh." Harry whispered, overcome by the gift, for it was a gift.

"With the amount of trouble you attract, it should help," Voldemort said quietly, looking at Harry with a thoughtful expression. "Blow out the candles before you leave."

Harry went to the bathroom to wash up first, then walked back to the bedroom, set the place to rights, wondering once again how Voldemort lived in the middle of such disarray, then blew out the candles and walked back to the bed. The man was asleep. Harry pressed a kiss to the hand outside the blankets, clutched his wand, and ended up in his four-poster bed at Hogwarts.

"Not the Isle of Man, after all," Harry said to himself, smiling. He fell asleep quickly.

—


	5. The Isle of Man

"Slytherins!" Ron was shouting angrily at the Quidditch match. They had sat this one out. Harry did not wish to participate. Ron had then decided to keep him company as Hermione was unlikely to, given that the NEWTs were looming.

"Cowards! Cheaters!" the Gryffindors around them were yelling.

Harry could only think of Voldemort letting himself be tied, despite his fear that had nearly careened into full-blown panic. He had obeyed Harry, had let Harry take pleasure from his body, had stayed as still as he could until his control had been smashed into smithereens, and even then he had not used wandless magic. Dumbledore said all of Voldemort's evil arose from fear. Harry had to disagree. Fear was present, but Harry was sure it was under control most of the time.

The stands erupted into raucousness then. On the pitch, the Gryffindor team had pulled ahead and won. Ginny was blazing across, the Snitch aloft in her hands, her face triumphant. Harry rose with the rest of them to cheer the well-deserved victory.

Remus visited Harry after the match. Harry made his excuses to Ron and Hermione, and accompanied the older man for a walk around the Lake.

"How have you been doing, Harry?"

"I am fine," Harry said honestly.

What did he have to fret about? He remembered nothing. Voldemort had seen to that. He had been worried about having sex after all that had happened to him, especially since Snape had left him newly purchased books that dealt with the subject of moving on from abuse. Voldemort had seen to that. There were the scars on his body. Those bothered him, especially when he was changing and Ron's eyes took on a tinge of pity. He hoped one day to stop being bothered.

"Are you still working with the werewolf packs for the Order?"

"Yes, Harry. Dumbledore had sent me to Normandy to bring more support for us. It is going as well as we expected it to. Some of the older pack members remember what it was like in the days of the first war with Grindelwald. The younger ones still hearken to You Know Who's propaganda. Greyback is actively recruiting."

Harry sighed. The war was going on, regardless of what Harry wanted. What did he want? He wanted to leave Hogwarts, find a job, and to finally have a normal life. He knew it was impossible. Grindelwald had offered a price for his head.

Neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort would let him slip into a normal life. He was one man's figurehead and another's destined slayer. Harry knew that Dumbledore would be disappointed. Harry could not kill Voldemort, not after all that had happened between them. Yes, it was strictly sex, but Harry suspected that Voldemort did not make port-keys for just anyone. Besides, he was sure that he was the first to tie Voldemort up. For God's sake, Voldemort had even done him the extreme kindness of Obliviating him.

"I want out of this war," Harry said.

"What?" Remus sounded startled. "I understand, Harry. War is evil and you are so young. We don't want you fighting in this war. The circumstances have brought you into an unfortunate position. You Know Who will never leave you alone, until one of you is dead."

Harry suspected Voldemort would not mind having him out of the war. He did not know. They had never spoken of it. Harry made a mental note to ask Dumbledore why Voldemort had not killed him when he had the chance. Maybe it was the bond.

"Ron and Hermione tell me you have been very quiet of late."

"Just thinking," Harry replied. "What is Voldemort's plan? Do we know?"

"Nobody has seen him since the battle at the Ministry," Remus said. "Some of the werewolves even say that he is dead, killed by infighting within the Death Eaters, or killed by Grindelwald himself. Bellatrix has been actively seen leading attacks in his name and casting the Dark Mark, however. Professor Snape also reports that there have been summonings, though Rabastan Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy have presided over the meetings."

Harry suspected that Voldemort had barricaded himself within that mansion after the Ministry battle, and Grindelwald's war had probably settled the matter for him. Having spent years roving around as a spirit, the man was unlikely to take huge chances with his life.

Why hide from his own men though? He did not seem to be researching anything, except soap-making. Harry had often perused the books lying around. They seemed mostly boring and useless, on varied subjects from getting rid of household pests to Merlin's biography. Harry had to get answers, from Dumbledore, as difficult as the exercise was going to be. Voldemort was unlikely to talk to Harry about anything war-related, and Harry had no intention to upset their delicate truce over sex.

"How do you know if you like sex better with men or women?" Harry asked Remus. It had bothered him a great deal, before the misadventure of his summer.

Remus laughed and said, "I had honestly expected you to have these questions at fifteen. You are a late bloomer and an enterprising one at that. I am afraid I don't have a good answer, Harry. Sirius liked both men and women. He liked women better. Your father and I were only ever attracted to women."

"Yes, well, it is only that I have had great experiences with women, but it felt more natural with a man. I know I am not gay. I am not attracted to any other man. This was more of a freak accident."

Remus turned to face him, clasped his hands, and said solemnly, "Have you considered that it might be more than just the sex? If you don't like men that way, there must be something special about this man that you are attracted to."

Harry stared at him in shock before quickly saying, "No way, Remus. No way. Besides, I am only a teenager. Sex is all I care about."

"Your parents married right out of school," Remus said sternly. "Don't think that you aren't capable of deep attachment at this age. They were. And you certainly are mature beyond your years."

Harry did not reply, horrified. He tried to think of any tender emotion he might have felt during sex. He could not come up with any. Relieved, he sighed. It was probably the bond's doing.

"Not Ron, I take it?"

"No!" Harry said, blushing.

"Someone older. You used the word man. Not a teacher, I hope?" Remus's voice was stern.

"Not a teacher. Not that boring."

"Watch it, Harry! I was a teacher once!" Remus said, laughing openly.

For an instant, Harry was happy and let down his guard, laughing with Remus as they shared anecdotes about Remus's teaching days. It had been so long ago, Harry reflected, as he walked back alone to Gryffindor tower. The scars on his chest chafed against his shirt, reminding him of at least one thing that had changed.

Harry did his best not to look at his scars. Avoidance had worked for him in the past. It would do so again, he was sure.

—

"Do you ever get out of here?" Harry asked as they lay spent on Voldemort's bed.

"I aired out the parlour," Voldemort replied.

"I hope you are joking," Harry said, turning to face the man. "I am not sure if I am worried about you airing out a room or about that you left here only to do that."

"Worried?" Voldemort asked carefully. "That is a dangerous word. You might want to rethink it."

"I don't want to," Harry said firmly. "I am worried. I come here regularly with have sex with you. If you go mad here from being cooped up, I will be affected."

"You are mentally recovered enough to have sex with others now," Voldemort told him, eyes wary.

"I haven't wanted to try," Harry said truthfully, deciding not to be offended by the harsh judgement. What would it serve? Voldemort was usually right. When he was wrong, Dumbledore was right. Caught between them, Harry was never going to keep his self-esteem if he worried about what they said.

"I am not cooped up here," Voldemort said finally, deciding to get it over with before Harry could badger him more.

Harry knew theirs was a weird arrangement. Voldemort was terrible at talking, more so than Harry himself was, and Harry won no prizes for it.

"I heard that nobody has seen you in ages," Harry pressed on.

"It only means that Dumbledore's spies hasn't seen me in ages," Voldemort replied with some asperity. "What is bothering you, Harry? Worried that I am a figment of your imagination?"

"In that case, I would worry about my imagination more," Harry snapped, turning to the other side to face away.

Why are Voldemort hiding here? Why did he have those scars? Harry wanted so many answers, and he knew that Voldemort would not give him a single one.

"Don't sulk in my bed," Voldemort demanded. He reached over and dropped Harry's wand on him. "Here, take this, and go back to school to finish your sulk."

Harry knew he ought to do that. Voldemort's temper was foul and Harry knew his own mood was strange. Best to leave before things escalated. He opened his mouth to have a parting shot, but took a deep breath, grabbed his wand, and went back.

The next time Harry turned up in Voldemort's bedroom, they carried on as if nothing had happened. It drove Harry spare, but he did not know what could be done about it. He had other things on his mind. Ron had told him that Malfoy had been marked the previous weekend, along with many of their peers in Slytherin and Ravenclaw. Voldemort must have been present at least for the Marking ceremony, right?

The house shook then. Harry stumbled onto Voldemort who steadied him with one hand while making complicated motions with his other.

"What is it?" Harry asked, rising up into a sitting position. Spell-light ricochetted off the window pane, green and deadly.

"Aurors!" Voldemort spat. "The wards will hold for a few minutes, but you must leave."

"What?" Harry asked, shocked, before his mind caught up. Right, he could not be seen here. Then Voldemort's eyes rolled up into his head and he was the one clutching Harry to steady himself.

"They have got Unspeakables bringing up wards around mine. Get out of here. I have to fight out."

Voldemort had recovered, quickly running to the wardrobe and pulling out a set of woollen robes. Harry could smell something burning outside.

"Can't you come with me?" Harry asked, getting up and dressing quickly. "Let the portkey get us out?"

"It is tuned only to you, for safety reasons," Voldemort murmured distractedly, looking about for his wand.

Harry took a deep breath and summoned it using his wand, before tossing it over to Voldemort. They stared at each other for a second before the sound of trees crashing down made Voldemort wince.

Harry rushed to press a kiss to the man before grabbing his wand and leaving. The more he delayed, the more he cost Voldemort, he knew.

He made his way down to the Common Room once he had reached his dormitory. There were groups of people huddled around, as if in anticipation of news.

"Harry!" Ron called him over. "The Aurors have cornered You Know Who! Somewhere in Derbyshire!"

It had been bloody Derbyshire. Harry did his best to make the appropriate sounds of surprise and shock when Ron exultantly gave him all the news they had so far. Hermione looked nervous and excited and hopeful.

"Maybe we will have a free world to walk into after we graduate, after all," she whispered.

"Is Dumbledore there?" Harry asked. Ron frowned, clearly expecting more enthusing from Harry's side. "I would feel better about our chances if Dumbledore was there, Ron."

Ron nodded seriously. Hermione said nobody knew.

"This is stressful. I am going for a walk," Harry said, and quickly escaped before they could grab him.

It was stressful. Harry's walk took him to the Astronomy tower. He waited there, until daybreak, until he saw Dumbledore and Snape walking up the path to the Great Hall, intact and unbloodied. The bond was closed to him. He suspected Voldemort had not wanted any distraction while he was fighting out of that siege.

"Harry?"

It was Hermione.

"Yes?"

"Have you been up here all night? You must be freezing." She briskly brought a kerchief to wipe his cheeks. Oh, had he been crying?

"Any news?"

"I am sorry, Harry." She bit her lip. "He massacred his way out of there, past the wards, and Apparated."

Harry found himself crying again. Hermione hugged him and Harry was glad for the warmth.

"Sixty-two died," she continued. "It is all in the Prophet. It was horrible, Harry." Then she seemed to cheer up and said, "They wounded him, I heard. He was bleeding badly when he escaped. Maybe he will die," she ended on a hopeful note.

Harry's first instinct was to explore their bond, which was still dormant and blocked.

"Harry, Miss Granger, Good morning!" Dumbledore said as he joined them. Harry noted that the Professor's eyes were weary but sharp. Dumbledore was wearing those navy robes he favoured for long journeys and for duels.

"Are you going to finish him off?" Harry asked and was dismayed at how broken his voice was.

"Death is his language, not mine," Dumbledore said reprovingly. "I do wish to find him. What does the bond tell you?"

"Nothing," Harry said softly. "He could be dead already."

Harry felt Dumbledore's mind exploring, until it retreated, satisfied, in knowing that he spoke the truth. Harry took a deep breath to calm down. He would do the same, if their positions were reversed. Dumbledore was only being careful.

"I don't think he will die so easily. He has survived worse."

"Doesn't Professor Snape know?"

"The Death Eaters have been Summoned, to the Lestrange manor. Professor Snape has not returned yet."

"I will come to you if I sense anything," Harry promised. Dumbledore nodded and left.

"I am going to catch up on sleep, Hermione," he told his friend, wanting her to believe and let him be, badly. She seemed tired and just nodded, muttering something about being late to her Arithmancy class.

They parted in the Common Room. Harry walked up the stairs, trying his best to keep his breathing level. Then he changed his path, got his Invisibility Cloak, and rushed to the Hospital Wing, where he stole three bottles of SkeleGro. Then he ran back to his dormitory. Once he reached his four-poster, in the safety of the empty dormitory, he tried the bond again and again, and failing after the umpteenth time, gave in to his tears.

Harry clutched his wand, wondering where the bastard had ended up, wondering if he needed help, wondering if Dumbledore would hunt him down before he got to safety, wondering it the Death Eaters might sell him out to the Ministry. His wand reverberated in his hand and Harry stared at it in incomprehension, for he knew the portkey was being activated.

He ended up somewhere rocky and cold, and his eardrums were pounded by the sound of waves crashing over rocks. He was in a ruin, roofless and ancient and small. His wand had flown from his hand the moment he had landed, and he knew someone with such sharp reflexes.

"You aren't dead yet," he muttered, getting up.

"And you did end up on the Isle of Man, after all," Voldemort said softly, carefully, as if speaking louder might cause him pain.

"A spell caught me in my left lung, tore through," he continued. "If you want me to participate in conversation, you will have to wait until my healing spells have finished."

"Stop talking, then," Harry snapped, and inspected the man in the morning light. There was blood all over the torn and burnt robes. By the careful way that Voldemort sat against the walls of the ruin, Harry suspected that there must be at least a broken rib. He shoved the bottles of Skele Gro he had brought into Voldemort's lap.

"Dumbledore is out to find you," Harry said tersely. "You should find a better hiding place."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow in amusement, but said nothing. Harry sighed and walked around the small ruin, trying to gauge the age of it. He remembered studying about the historical importance of the Isle of Man, but he could not remember the details.

"Where were your bloody Death Eaters anyway? Didn't you have any guarding your house? And in bloody Derbyshire, of all places! Didn't you know there was an Auror station right in the middle of the county?"

This was Harry's chance to vent. Voldemort could not speak, after all.

"And why did you close the bond? Yes, I can understand why when you were fighting for your life. After you got here, to safety, you could have let me know you were alive! No, I had to hear from Dumbledore, from the Daily Prophet!"

"All that grandstanding too! One might think you were invincible!" Harry fumed. "And look where that got you? On the bloody Isle of Man, with a torn lung and broken bones, nursing your wounds alone. You don't need a prophecy hero to kill you. You don't need Dumbledore to kill you! You don't need Grindelwald to kill you! You can manage that all by yourself!"

Something batted his left ear. Harry huffed and turned, to find a posy of purple wildflowers floating in the air.

"You are insane," Harry said fervently, catching the flowers and smelling their sweet fragrance. They still bore the scent of the ocean, shone with dew drops, and were cold to the touch.

"We both are," Voldemort said peaceably, looking much mended after his spells had finished working. "This is St. Michael's chapel, Harry. From the 12th century, though they say there was an older worship site here before that."

"Are we safe here?"

"I am safe enough. You are going back," Voldemort said sharply. "We are not lovers from rival families trysting, Harry. We are either side of a damned prophecy, and even if we set it aside, nobody else will. You cannot be found with me. Why do you think it took me so long to fight out of that death-trap yesterday? I had to first cast spells to destroy every trace of you, of your remarkable magic, before I could leave. The Aurors might not have seen it, but Dumbledore would have immediately noticed if he had examined the place, had I not incinerated every trace of you."

"Can you even hear yourself?" Harry shouted. "You are talking about hiding my traces as if I were a dirty secret. It was not important. Why would you care? It was more important to get out!"

"Do you think I care if I have a dirty secret?" Voldemort roared. "I cared that you wouldn't have one! The press would have a field day with you if this came out. And can you imagine what it would mean to Grindelwald? You are a wanted man just as I am! Even if you don't care about any of that, don't you care about what your mentors and friends will think?"

"I have spent enough nights worrying about that!" Harry shouted back, fighting to be heard over the sounds of the ocean. "I don't care. I am not afraid of Grindelwald or the Ministry or the press! I lived with the Dursleys in a cupboard for ten years, Voldemort!" There, it was the first time he had used the bloody name after sleeping with the man. The sky did not come crashing down upon him. "I care very little about what others think of me! I love my friends, I love Dumbledore, but I will never, never put what they think of me above your safety."

"Harry, you don't mean that."

"Shut up!" Harry said, wiping off the tears from his cheeks. "Just shut up. If you wanted me to not mean that, you should have left me to die drugged in that hell-hole." He wanted to go embrace the man, but he was frightened of the blood. So much blood. This was the man who had slaughtered sixty men the previous day. This was the man who had killed Harry's parents both.

"I have to address a meeting in an hour," Voldemort said wearily, taking off his robes. Harry winced on seeing the dark ridges left by the spell that had torn through the left lung. It would leave no mark, Harry knew, unlike the other scars that were on Voldemort's torso. "I am off to take a dip in a nearby inlet to wash the blood off. Will you join me? I promise not to touch you until I am clean of blood."

"I can't swim," Harry said, following Voldemort anyway. "Do you have Gillyweed?"

"You won't need that," Voldemort murmured. "I will tether you to me with a spell."

Harry wanted to say that he was tethered to Voldemort anyway by curse and wand and blood, but thought better of it.

Voldemort's body turned cold easily, Harry knew that. And the man liked sleeping under a mountain of blankets. So Harry was surprised that he dared walk naked on an island in the cold wind, pelted by the ocean spray, shivering but still willing. Then again, Harry reflected, remembering the mad night when he had been allowed to tie the man up, what Voldemort liked to have and what he chose to bear were often very different.

Harry did enjoy his swim in the inlet, exulting in the cold water, lazing about in a float as Voldemort cleaned off the blood and grime with painstaking carefulness. Harry did not sink. Laughing, he made his way to Voldemort.

"I will need to make a fresh batch of soap," Voldemort said.

"I will buy you some," Harry promised.

"I like making my soap, Harry," Voldemort replied, though there was a wry twist of amusement at the corner of his lips. "It is very kind of you to offer, nonetheless."

"You were trying to protect my honour," Harry said, laughing. The devil was in him, because he tried splashing water at his companion. Voldemort ignored him with great patience. "I must buy you something for that noble act."

"The normal response to an act of chivalry is to put out some," Voldemort suggested, pulling Harry close and kissing him. There, with the sun beating down upon them, with the ocean around them, with the birds dotted against the rocks, Harry felt that they were normal.

"I am ready," Harry breathed, forgetting his scars thanks to how Voldemort's eyes appraised him. "How do you want me?"

"I have turned you into such a harlot," Voldemort muttered. "In the interests of my still healing lung, I have to advise against such an adventure right now."

"Are you planning to head back to your meeting naked?" Harry asked, with prurient interest, taking in Voldemort's form with a liberty he often did not have in the dimly lit environ of Voldemort's bedroom.

"Oh, Harry, you don't think I came here for the climate, did you?" Voldemort asked, laughing, and Harry had never seen him so carefree. Overwhelmed, he leaned across to kiss the man. Voldemort broke away, dragged him out of the water, and led him back to the chapel. With a few murmured words, he uncovered a Wizarding Space in a corner, full of robes and books and candles and quills.

"I hope that it is your luck and not mine which protects your memories from Dumbledore," Voldemort muttered, taking out a robe and slipping into it. "I might advise Occlumency, but that would only make him suspicious."

Harry smiled, as he put his clothes back on. He was luckier than Voldemort, usually, but he still would be careful around Dumbledore.

"Go on," Voldemort said. "Try the port-key."

Harry felt wounded. Didn't Voldemort even want a parting kiss? Harry wanted one! He did not want to pick a quarrel over that when they were getting along reasonably well, so he took his wand and concentrated. It shook in his hands, but left him where he was.

"It is not working anymore."

"I am afraid it is working in a way we had not intended. Magic is a strange creature, Harry. It often interprets spells verbally, when it chooses to."

Harry frowned. What had Voldemort said when he had made the port-key? That it would bring him where he belonged. At the time, he had thought it strange that Voldemort had not spelled it to port him to Hogwarts. Where he belonged - Harry felt a gasp escape him. Voldemort was staring at him with what looked like concern. Harry shook his head and offered a weak smile.

"It is a powerful spell," Voldemort said with a sigh. "I cannot undo it now, Harry. Try not to use it until we change the spell, or until it changes its mind about where you belong. I can make you another port-key."

So Harry got back to his dormitory with his posy of wild-flowers which had served as a last-minute candidate for a port-key. Harry chewed his lip. Voldemort had explicitly asked him to burn the flowers, in the fear that Dumbledore might sense his magic on them. Harry wondered if he could transfigure them into something else. Then he realized it would make things worse if Dumbledore noticed his magic over Voldemort's. With a deep breath, Harry kissed the flowers and then incinerated them. It left him feeling hollow, but he took comfort in having made the best decision he could, under the circumstances. They would never have more, would they? Harry remembered what Voldemort had said, about how others would never forget the prophecy even if Harry and Voldemort set it aside.


	6. Ye Who Belong

The next week was busy, as Harry sat his Auror entrance examination. He did unexpectedly well, but he was not too concerned about the exams. A good portion of what should have been his Seventh Year, when he had spent the school year at the Weasleys, had been spent revising for the Auror examinations. Harry and Ron had sat in Ron's small room, quizzing each other for hours on end. He had not brushed up on his studies recently, but he did not overly care. He could retake them, after all.

The bond was normal, and it settled Harry. Strange that Voldemort was Harry's only constancy. Even Hogwarts would stop being a constant, after they left the school.

"And the Dark Lord has granted us a great honour!" Malfoy was prattling away, surrounded by his minions.

Had Voldemort made Malfoy Manor his residence then? Harry found it difficult to imagine the man in the opulence of that mansion. He had half-expected Voldemort to take up residence in that abandoned chapel on the Isle of Man. He sighed. He could not afford to sneak about if Malfoy Manor was where Voldemort had set up camp. It was too dangerous. He had once trusted Voldemort to be ruthlessly efficient, but the Auror attack had shaken Harry's faith. Added to that, Voldemort's newfound interest in maintaining Harry's reputation was even more alarming. Harry wanted it all to go back to their old and predictable rounds of sex.

"Will you be my best man?" Ron asked him that night.

"Ron! You finally asked her?" Harry shouted, laughing in happiness for his best friends. "Oh, Ron, finally!"

Ron blushed and stuttered out the story of his proposal. It was all very normal and beautiful and something Harry suspected he would not find in his life, even if the whole Voldemort business ended.

"I just knew that I belonged with her, you know," Ron was saying.

"Belonged?" Harry asked, distractedly, thinking of the port-key spell gone wrong.

"Yes, if I died today, I would want hers to be the last face I see. If something happened, I would want to immediately go find her first, before anything else. Belonging, I think. It is what my parents have, what Bill and Fleur have."

"I am so happy for you," Harry said honestly, but from the pity and concern on Ron's face, there was something more to Harry's expression accidentally.

"You will find it too," Ron promised. "She will help you forget all the stuff which happened to you this summer."

Harry sighed.

"Or a bloke," Ron said quietly. "It doesn't matter, does it?"

It did matter, Harry thought despondently, thinking back to how that bloody wand now only took him to Voldemort, thinking back to the ferocity of their kisses in that ocean cove, thinking back to the posy of flowers he had to burn. Before all of that, there had been a man who had possessed Harry's drugged body and killed his tormentors, a man who had Obliviated Harry's worst memories, a man so afraid to be vulnerable who had still let Harry tie him up, a man who had made soap in his bathroom, a man who had talked about his childhood's grief without much bitterness. He swallowed.

"Is there someone?" Ron asked him gently.

Oh, how Harry wanted to confide in Ron. In an ideal world, Harry would be in love with Ginny, and his children would fall in love with Ron's and Hermione's children. In a less ideal world, Harry would be in love with some other girl, but it would all still be fine. It might be even a bloke and that would be all right too. In this world, Harry was not in love, but he was tethered to a man, of whom the less said about the better.

Then a phoenix quill fell onto Harry's bed, and on it was tied a scroll. It was Dumbledore, wanting to see him urgently. Ron made a sympathetic noise. Harry gave him a wan smile and trudged off, trying to shore up his mind.

Dumbledore sat there in his office, behind his great desk, on which was a familiar Pensieve swirling with a memory.

"This one was obtained with great difficulty," he murmured, waving Harry in, bidding him to come closer.

Harry had not seen a memory of Riddle in a long time. He shored up his mind as best as he could, grabbed Dumbledore's hand, and dunked his head into the Pensieve, hoping that it was just one of Riddle fucking somebody at school. The rest of Riddle's doings were going to be more unpleasant to watch, Harry was sure, knowing how deep in dark magic the boy had meddled even at school.

This was of Riddle, fucking, but differently than usual. He looked older, for one. His partner was enthusiastic, as Riddle's partners all were. They made a handsome pair, Riddle's black hair contrasting sharply with the man's golden mane, Riddle's thin and wiry frame (unscarred, Harry noted) against the man's fine musculature. There was care in Riddle's movements, more care than he usually exhibited in these memories. Fascinated despite himself, Harry watched.

"Why can't you be rougher?" his partner complained.

"Hush," Riddle murmured, much in the same way he silenced Harry when Harry complained. "Rough sex is more pleasant to fantasize about than to indulge in, Abraxas."

"You are so good to me," the man beneath Riddle said with a sigh, after they had fallen into orgasm together.

"And you are a careless man," Riddle muttered, tweaking his partner's ears. "Stay out of Mad-Eye's path. That is an order."

There was a gasp from the corner where Harry was standing. He turned to look at a small woman, dainty-looking and well-dressed, staring at the couple in horror.

"Eloise!" The man called out, alarmed.

"Let me deal with her," Riddle said sharply, rising from bed, wand in hand.

"Don't hurt her!" The man implored, coming to him and daring to place a hand on Riddle's shoulder. Harry thought that the next breath would be the man's last, but Riddle only sighed and let his fingers come back to gently clasp the man's hand and give it a squeeze.

"I let her live, Abraxas. What more can you ask of me?"

Then there was darkness, and Harry was swirling away, until he found himself in Dumbledore's office.

"This was different," Harry gave his opinion, as he knew Dumbledore expected him to.

"Tom Riddle was fascinated by Abraxas Malfoy, or so the gossip-mills during their schooldays said," Dumbledore said, resting his chin over his steepled fingers. "Mr. Malfoy married. After his death, after Voldemort's fall, Eloise was admitted to St. Mungo's. Her memories had been tampered with often."

"Did they-?" Harry cleared his throat, trying to be impersonal and useful. He could relive the memory later, in the privacy of his bed, and think about why he hated the blonde prat. "Did they do that until Abraxas's death?"

"Nobody knows, but Eloise's memory was last tampered with in 1972, based on what I could discern."

"He must have liked Abraxas a great deal," Harry said carefully.

"So everyone thought, but Mr. Malfoy died in a grisly manner in his manor's stables. Many suspected dark magic. I think Voldemort had a part in his death, Harry. Obsession often leads to impulsive, ill-thought actions, as we saw in the case of his own mother."

That night, Harry did not find sleep, mulling over how Riddle's shoulders had slumped when Abraxas had interceded on his wife's behalf. At three in the morning, he clutched his wand and closed his eyes, wanting to be taken away for a few hours from the heaviness of it all.

Voldemort's bedroom was dark. Harry wondered where it was. Malfoy Manor? He did not care right then. He stumbled across to the bed, where Voldemort's form lay asleep. Harry snuck under the blankets and moved close to the sleep-warm body.

He found himself kissed awake in the late morning.

"You should return," Voldemort said. "You should have woken me last night if you desired sex or conversation, Harry."

Harry had not particularly wanted either, not after watching that memory. He had just wanted to get away from it. As Voldemort's fingers tried to coax Harry's hair into a state of respectability, Harry sighed and said, "Dumbledore thinks you killed Abraxas Malfoy."

So far, Harry had kept the jealousy at bay by drawing a strict distinction between the Riddle of the memories and the Voldemort he had sexual dealings with. Now the line was blurring, and Harry found it unexpectedly difficult to contain his anger and jealousy.

Voldemort's fingers in Harry's hair stilled and he said quietly, "He killed himself. He made a choice, you see, between what he had with me, and what he wanted - the respect and love of his family. He was torn between his notions of masculinity and his desire for me, until he made that choice. Unfortunately for him, I never let him forget that. I favoured the Blacks and the Lestranges more. He took the slight seriously. And over the years, he sought to revoke his choice. I didn't yield, and that fed his turmoil more. In his own way, I suspect he was quite fond of me. One thought led to another, and before any of us knew it, he had decided to end his life in his stables, amidst his beloved racing steeds."

What a tragic tale, Harry thought. Dumbledore had thought that Riddle had only been obsessed. Voldemort's side of the story had been rather different. Harry suspected the truth was somewhere between what Dumbledore and Voldemort had told him.

"I could see that you were fond of him too," Harry said carefully, needing the words to be spoken, though he was afraid of the reaction.

"My predilection to be fond of eminently heterosexual men is a character failing, doubtless."

"I don't think I am gay, if that is what you were referring to," Harry said wryly.

"Luckily for me, you are Harry, our hero, so full of heart," Voldemort murmured sleepily, drawing closer.

Harry was lucky too, he felt, for the first time, hearing those words. In some ways, Harry knew that dealing with Voldemort was easier. The man did not play games of manipulation unlike Ginny. What he said was usually worth taking at face value.

"And you like me in catsuits."

"There is that too," Voldemort agreed.

Harry remembered how Riddle's shoulders had slumped when Abraxas had interceded on his wife's behalf. A choice, Voldemort had said. Harry suspected that it was a choice Riddle had fought against for a very long time, until he had lost. Riddle had not succumbed to using the Imperius or a potion to get his lover back, unlike his mother.

With fresh resolution, he kissed Voldemort and made his way back to Hogwarts with the proffered port-key.

He had some soap to make.


End file.
